


Murder is (not) a joke

by Yuliares



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bored Sherlock Holmes, Jokes, M/M, murder plots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25097761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares
Summary: Wherein John and Sherlock plot Sherlock's murder.~"I need a bank heist. Or a murder, that’d be more interesting.”“Oh, there’s about to be one,” mutters John. “You won’t be able to catch the killer.”“Of course I will,” says Sherlock, distracted but still offended on principle. “I always do.”“Not this one,” says John. “Because you’ll be dead.”Sherlock lifts his head to stare at him, eyes a little wide. “... are you trying to make a joke, John? I recall you very expressly telling me it’s ‘not on’ to joke about murder.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 77





	Murder is (not) a joke

**Author's Note:**

> You can read this is pre-slash or gen, whatever your preference! I just like the boys having ridiculous conversations.

John Watson’s day starts with the smell of lilacs, a beautiful blue sky, and a truly terrible concert of discordant chords and screeching wails. Even though the violin has since been safely tucked away in its velvet-line case, Sherlock’s pissy mood clearly hasn’t.

John watches as Sherlock reaches out to nudge a stack of books _just_ _so_. It wobbles once, twice, and then loudly crashes off the edge of the table and onto the floor.

John takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and tries to unclench his teeth. He hears, rather than sees, the table lamp joining the books.

“Could you  _ not! _ ” he finally yells.

“Booooaaaaarrrrdd,” Sherlock intones, and throws himself onto the sofa. His long, bony feet stick up off the edge. “It’s been forever, surely someone is committing a clever crime somewhere. I need a bank heist. Or a murder, that’d be more interesting.”

“Oh, there’s about to be one,” mutters John.

“No, there isn’t,” snaps Sherlock, throwing his hands up. “That’s the whole problem! It’s a lovely day out, no one ever gets murdered on nice days like today. I hate them.”

“You won’t be able to catch the killer,” says John, nodding to himself.

“Of course I will,” says Sherlock, distracted but still offended on principle. “I always do.”

“Not this one,” says John. “Because you’ll be dead.”

Sherlock lifts his head to stare at him, eyes a little wide, and something smug hits the back of John’s throat.  _ Still capable of surprising the world’s first and only consulting detective. _ He breaks eye contact and self-consciously clears his throat. 

“... are you trying to make a joke, John? I recall you very expressly telling me it’s ‘not on’ to joke about murder.”

“That only applies to actual murders.”

Sherlock frowns, and thumps his head back onto the cushions. “Liar. That was never specified.”

And for a brief, blessed moment, the flat is silent.

“How would you do it?” asks Sherlock suddenly, staring at the ceiling.

“What?”

“Kill me. Strangulation? Appealing, no doubt, but the marks on my neck would be much too incriminating-”

John groans. He should have never opened his mouth. “Sherlock, I’m not—”

“Come on, John!” Sherlock says, and turns to face him, propping his head upon one elbow, dark hair sticking in all directions. “I can help you hide the body!”

John can’t help but laugh, eyebrows rising. “...your body.”

“Well, obviously the execution would be up to you,” Sherlock says impatiently, waving a hand. “But I’m sure you’d mess it up without my help.”

_ More than a bit not-good,  _ John thinks. And he should shut it down immediately—in fact, his mouth is already half open, about to do so. If Lestrade could hear them—but for the first time today, Sherlock actually seems… interested. He looks utterly ridiculous, of course, a grown man in his dressing gown at nearly half-past eleven, curled up on the sofa like a teenage girl at a slumber party. His eyes are bright from across the room.

“Fine,” says John, and tries to ignore the grin Sherlock gives him. From the tug curling his own lips, it’s clear he’s not successful. “But we never mention this in front of anyone else,” John adds sternly, and sets his book aside as Sherlock nods impatiently. It’s too easy, and John scrambles to come up with more restrictions.

“And... and we only ever plot  _ your _ murder,” he adds, after a moment. “And only here in our living room, just the two of us.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, fine.”

“I’m serious, Sherlock,” John says, as earnestly and firm as he knows how, and sets his book aside to lean forward. “Promise me.”

“John,” says Sherlock, a bit surprised. There’s a pause. And then he throws his legs up and over the arm of the couch to sit up, mirroring John’s pose with his sharp elbows on his knees. “I promise,” he says, voice low.

“Good,” says John. “Fine.” He looks around the room for inspiration, and his eyes fall on the as-of-yet-unscathed teacup on the mantle.

“Poisoning your tea would be dead simple.”

“A bad pun, already? Really, John,” says Sherlock scornfully. “And it’s much too obvious, you’re the only one who makes tea around here.”

“Not how I hoped my efforts would be recognized, but I guess I’ll take it,” says John, rolling his eyes and continuing to look about the room. “I could... poison one of your experiments. You never use gloves when I tell you to.”

“Better,” says Sherlock, pleased. “Fast-acting or slow?”

“Fast, I should think, or you might notice and take counter measures. Do you have anything available, or would I need to go shopping?”

"Shopping means receipts and store cams."

"I'm not a total idiot, thank you. I'd buy online with your card."

"You hate buying things online."

"For the sake of your murder," John says graciously, "I would muddle through. You never check your bank logs anyways."

"But the package would be addressed to me."

"You also never get the mail, unless you're expecting something."

"But how would you know if I was? You're far more likely to be out of the flat than I am."

"Fine! Something you already have then. Or might have 'acquired' from a client or the police station."

"Oh. Yes!” Sherlock leaps to his feet. “Come on John, we’re going out.”

“We are?”

“Yes! We must do a full inventory of what’s available at St. Barts. It’s a standard enough institution, which countless people have access to day in and day out. It could actually help with a case someday.” Already at the door, he spins on his heel and flaps his hands at John, still seated. “Get up! It’s a nice day, you want to go out anyways, you’re just afraid to leave me alone in the flat.”

John ducks his head, because how is this his life, and then shoves himself out of the chair. “You blew out a fuse,” he points out, “And flooded the kitchen. And waited until I got home so I could call the plumber for you.”

“That was just one instance—”

“One of many,” counters John, patting his pockets. “Let me grab my—”

With a jingle, Sherlock’s tossing him his keys, and John catches it automatically with the closest hand.

“Motor control is improving,” Sherlock notes with a smirk, and then he’s clattering down the stairs.

John looks at the keys clenched in his left hand, and grins.


End file.
